Of ugly baubles and singing trees
by the geek in glasses
Summary: Draco learns that Christmas with Harry will never be dull, especially when he's not around to decorate their singing tree. HPDM, post-Hogwarts. Utter fluff and drabble(fail).


**None of these characters belong to me, of course, except the obnoxious tree.**

 **Harry and Draco fluff during the holidays. Drabble(fail) while I try to work up the nerve to update** ** _eclipse._** **My style has definitely changed, but I was up reading my old work with my cousin and decided it was time for another attempt at writing something (hopefully) decent. So here it is; enjoy!**

"Shit," Draco curses, rubbing the scorch marks on his knee. His wand has been emitting alarming sparks every time he tries to levitate a bauble or position decorations on a particularly sharp needle. It's been an hour since he began, and he hasn't gotten anywhere except panting, slick with sweat, praying to some divine spirit of the holiday season to take mercy on him. When that doesn't work, he briefly considers sending an _Evanesco_ in the direction of the stupid tree, which is in the same position as when Harry brought it in a week ago, all smiles and rosy cheeks and Draco had forgotten to be angry at all the clearly un-Malfoy Christmas decorations and pine needles, too busy kissing the smug (icy-cold) idiot.

Now he wonders what his mother would say if she saw the mess. He can picture her disapproving glare as she orders their numerous house elves to clean up the mess and _Incendio_ the decorations. Which - now that Draco thinks about it, isn't such a bad idea. In fact it's a bloody brilliant idea, and he would be following through with it if it weren't for the fact that he has no house elves (and the small, inconvenient fact that Harry would most certainly be displeased and Draco really doesn't want to be on the receiving end of one of his irritating and _very_ _convincing_ pouts).

And maybe that isn't very Malfoy, but he thinks it's about time he reconsiders what is Malfoy and what isn't, a decision he made when he'd kissed Harry Potter in eighth year. And then gotten married to him seven years later after he'd become an Auror, and Harry a Healer. Which was...unexpected, but it's perfect and Draco wouldn't have it any other way.

Draco fiercely re-attaches a bauble to the nearest needle, even managing not to wince when it pricks him and draws blood. He shoots a quick stinging hex its way, to which the tree retaliates by throwing another five baubles off its leaves. Grumpy arse. He doesn't remember why he'd been so keen to impress Harry with a fully decorated tree in the first place, but the thought of giving up raises bitter bile in his throat and he redoubles his efforts, jabbing the tree with much greater force than necessary while hanging up the next one (shaped like a gnome).

Sending Harry to buy the decorations hadn't been one of his smartest ideas, but he'd thought ten years would've lent him some experience. It'd been a tad bit optimistic on his part, he supposes (something he definitely blames on Harry; the man simply radiates positivity - it is a rather annoyingly endearing characteristic of his). Yet the idiot had somehow managed to ignore _both_ of his instructions to not get a magic tree, and to, under no circumstances, even glance at _Zabini's Knickknacks_. Blaise might be their friend, but his idea of elegance appalls Draco, and he isn't going to have that trash they call 'trendy decor' in his house, thank you very much.

So he is stuck decorating a magical singing tree - Harry had been delighted at the prospect of harmonizing to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Hippogriff with it, though it had yet to show any of its talents - with terribly festive baubles which Draco _hates._ They are having a horrible effect on his bad mood, and during their most recent visit, Granger had even commented that his scowl was losing its ferocity, at which point Draco had run to the bathroom, horrified at the crooked grin on his face and even more horrified when he'd returned to a charmed sofa looking like a ludicrous overstuffed Santa. Harry had laughed warmly as Draco bellowed himself hoarse, shouting threats at the retreating backs of Granger and Weasley after his spells hadn't been able to get the dratted print off, then threaded his fingers through Draco's in apology. And Draco had decided to let the incident go - there were better things he could be doing with his mouth, as Harry had not-so-elegantly put it.

Draco takes a step back, slightly miffed when the tree droops, clearly mocking his efforts. Ignoring it, he conjures up some red and green tinsel and drapes it artfully around the tree, basking in the glow of pride at having finished his small project. Decorating the tree is something they usually do together, but Harry has been pulling more and more late shifts (it scares Draco to see the swollen dark circles underneath his eyes, but Harry waves him away whenever he brings them up), and he'd been so disappointed that they couldn't continue the tradition this year that Draco had decided to decorate the tree himself.

So maybe he's not accustomed to the easy give and take of his and Harry's relationship, but Draco isn't sure that he could ever be fully prepared for the heart-warming half smiles Harry constantly throws his way, and toe-curling kisses and the way he comes undone at home, in the privacy of their bed - the small parts of himself tucked away for only Draco to see, and no one else. Draco clings to these parts selfishly, little everyday miracles that he is still surprised by.

He marvels at how long it took him to work up the nerve to apologize back in eighth year, and then Harry had brushed it away like it was nothing - like saving his life was something so _intuitive_ he didn't have to think about it. Draco often thought he'd become so good at saving people he'd decided to do it for a living. And then married Draco, just to seal the deal - after all, a former death eater was bound to have trouble looking after himself (never mind that he is an Auror; he's got the freaking _savior of the wizarding world_ by his side).

He's so caught up in his thoughts he doesn't even realize that it's been five minutes and he's been staring absentmindedly at the tree, which seems to look very pale all of a sudden. A bit of stray tinsel catches his eye, and he points his wand at it, ready to fix it more firmly around the stubborn arse of a tree, but he's too late. There are pine needles all over the floor, and over his Weasley sweater from last year (a broomstick with a black cat and a teenage witch on the front - it'd been the year Draco developed an alarming obsession for _Sabrina the teenage witch_ ). He groans, pressing his face into his hands and trying very hard to keep his calm. When he looks up, he swears the tree is grinning at him creepily, and it has plugged the lights into the socket, so the room is twinkling with fairy lights - eighty lights just laughing at him. Maybe he's being melodramatic; Harry does always claim that he has an affinity for over-the-top acting.

Still, he feels like whining at the tree like some petulant five-year-old, something so _Harry_ that he is alarmed to another level, ready to abort his mission. Then, suddenly, the tree...twitches. Frowning he turns to reach for his wand and prod the needles, but it twitches again. Irritated, he thinks this might be some kind of victory dance, so he casts a leg-locking jinx at the tree, but all that does is make it teeter back and forth precariously with every twitch, unable to move its trunk. Maybe, Draco contemplates, it has an itch? He isn't sure if that's possible, but he moves closer with a _Lumos_ to examine the harassed looking leaves, then shouts out an exclamation, his Santa hat falling off when it _arches_ into the touch.

No. No no no no. Harry cannot have done this to him! Draco curses him inwardly, but his mind is too preoccupied with horror to allow himself to enjoy the taste of those acrid words. If he isn't mistaken, Harry has just got them a seducing tree. The one they'd seen in the window of _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes,_ and Draco had promptly scoffed at the caption: _Enjoy this festive holiday season, with a seductive tree that knows no reason._ The crude rhyme was surely Ginny's, who'd taken over for Fred just when George had been planning to sell the shop; he'd been disappointed by the sub-par standard of poetry. But Harry swears he'd seen Blaise come by her house the other day in ludicrous red and green striped stockings (Draco is furious that he hadn't had the sense to even take a picture), so Draco supposes she's had ample reason to be distracted.

And maybe it's weird to have his best friend almost-but-not-yet-dating Harry's ex, but Draco's too caught up in the warmth and comfort of his easy friendships with them to worry about what is weird and what isn't. Besides, he isn't one to judge, after his history with Harry. In retrospect, it's almost amusing the way they'd pined after each other so long back in Hogwarts, quietly (or not so quietly) obsessing until he'd almost snapped with the weight of having to hold it all in. And then Harry had shown up at his trial and he'd been cleared and it was so easy with them that Draco had been surprised he'd ever thought otherwise.

Draco's thoughts must've strayed away from him again, because he can clearly feel sticky sap flowing down his arm, and a needle caressing his wrist. He jerks his hand away abruptly, mortified, and the pine tries to inch closer but is prevented by the hex. Draco is about to hit it with a body bind curse when it droops pitifully, needles falling carelessly to the floor with each twitch. Draco's scowl wavers, and then he shakes his head, embarrassed at feeling bad for a _seducing tree_ , no less and presses his mouth in a firm line, pursing his lips and putting in as much effort as he can to look menacing. Which really shouldn't be too hard since he's had so much practice, but he knows the tree can sense that the glare holds no malice. It's not his fault when the tree is looking at him so sadly, almost helpless, and trembling so much, as if - as if it was - cold?

Draco freezes, collecting his thoughts, heart sinking at his conclusion. Oh. Yes. That makes _much_ _more_ sense than a _seducing tree_. What had he been thinking? Draco feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment, a blush dusting his pale skin, so his reflection in the baubles looks vaguely like (a slightly fairer version of) a tomato. The tree must really just be a charmed singing tree. A singing tree which is shivering from the cold, not suffering from some repressed sexual tension or whatever other wild nightmarish fantasies Draco's mind seems inclined to create. Draco loosens his knuckle-white grip on the wand, quickly casting a cleaning charm over himself to get rid of the sticky sap and dusting off his scorched and torn jeans. Grimacing, he chances a hopefully covert glance at the saddening sight of splintered wood and drying leaves and decides to try his luck with one of Harry's secret spells.

 _Levicorpus,_ he thinks, and watches as the tree is lifted up by the left side of its trunk, floating uncomfortably, its tip hitting the ceiling far too many times. He directs it toward the fireplace, unconcerned about the dirt on the walls and floor, too worried about getting it warm. He remembers to _Liberacorpus_ and let it down before casting a quick _Incendio_ at the logs and watching as the fire crackles warmly. The pine trembles once more, then droops again, this time clearly content. Draco lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and sighs against his forearms, curling up in the armchair and looking over his messy living room in satisfaction. After a while - during which he's let out too many sighs and pleased smiles to ever hope to reclaim his title, awarded to him by Harry, as the _Grinch_ \- he rises from his chair to quickly clean up the mess, then drapes tinsel around the tree once more. His _Reparo_ restores the ugly goblin bauble, and then he rethinks his decision, throwing it on the floor and casting an _Evanesco,_ to the delight of the now-chuckling pine. The jeans are torn and singed and ripped just about everywhere, but he's too tired to worry about his appalling lack of grace at the moment. He applauds himself for remembering to wear Harry's jeans, which were so old they were ready to be thrown out anyway.

Harry isn't due back for another half an hour or so, and Draco returns to rest in the armchair with a book. He sighs, awash with contentment, and closes his eyes. Then pricks his ears at the unmistakable sound of humming. He thinks it's Harry at first, but realizes that it's too deep to be him. Which means -

"It's foggy outside, Rudolph makes a tiny red light," the pine tree begins in low dulcet tones.

"All the reindeer are ready to take a Christmas flight," Draco continues, gripped by a strange emotion as he struggles to catch his breath. His dignity falls in a heap onto the hearthrug as he sings to _Muggle tunes_ (sure signs that Harry has somehow managed to brainwash him), surrounded by the reflections of strings of translucent fairy lights and the tree glistens and twinkles merrily. Draco's heart is in his throat as a third voice joins in, lips brushing his ear so he can feel the unspoken thank you, "Candy canes in every child's dreams, floating on islands of ice cream."

Draco stops with a flourish to regard the man he has come to know better than himself and love wholeheartedly. He threads his fingers through wind-tousled hair, and Harry's eyes darken anticipatorily. It is a faint brush of lips and then Harry makes a small, irritated noise and there are hands pulling him closer, a lick of electricity carving up his spine as he is being given a dizzying kiss. He pulls back, dazed, lips curving upward, thoroughly upsetting his apathetic demeanor. There is a flicker of amusement in the green eyes, as Harry tucks a lock of hair behind Draco's ear, cheeks and nose red from the cold, absentmindedly tracing circles with his thumb on Draco's cheek as something warm embeds itself in his chest.

"Merry Christmas," Harry says breathlessly, kissing the tip of Draco's nose, then sinking into his chair.

"There's another chair over there," Draco grumbles, pulling him closer until dark locks tickle his cheek.

"Mmm," Harry hums, pressing an icy calf to Draco's shin.

"You're cold," Draco complains, "I'm going to need a lot of presents to make up for this," he says as Harry turns to study the fireplace and apparently _dancing_ tree with silent laughter.

"I think I can manage that." Harry turns in the circle of his arms, and Draco savors the slip of Harry's nose against his and warm stubble against his cheek. When he kisses him now, he doesn't even have to think about it. Then Harry elbows him until he joins in on the chorus of _Jingle Spells_ (seriously, what is Harry's fascination with wizard parodies of muggle songs?) while the overly enthusiastic tree runs circles in the rug, and Draco thinks he has somehow managed to fall in love with Harry a little more (and he can't even muster up the scorn to be alarmed by the admission).

"Draco?" Harry asks, after their third rendition of _Here comes Santa Claus,_ his back against Draco's chest, their interlocked fingers resting serenely on Harry's lap, where Draco is transfixed by their beauty. He admires the opalescent pearl and gold against Harry's skin - and his matching ring, a mix of nostalgia and love seeping into his veins - before lifting his head slightly to answer.

"Yes?"

"What did you do to my pants?"

Some stories, Draco decides, are best left untold.


End file.
